


Ichabod Diem

by Evayna



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Gen, Mystery, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evayna/pseuds/Evayna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day made up of different moments in the life of Ichabod Crane. In the present day, Sleepy Hollow is struck with mysterious deaths that just don't make sense, and it's only by learning from the past that this case can ever be solved.</p>
<p>Themes of honour, privilege, and different perspectives are central. There are multiple references to suicide, and one reference to torture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May 1750

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brightaspiring](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightaspiring/gifts).



    Ichabod only awoke at the opening of the curtains. The maid had been fussing around, picking up yesterday's toys and throwing his socks in the hamper, but the little boy had been sound asleep, eyelashes flickering with dreaming. Now a bright ray of early summer sun streaked across his face and pillow. He raised his small arm to block the light, but quickly lowered it again and moaned. As the maid looked over to him, he tried to appear utterly pathetic.  
    "What's wrong, little one?" She asked, drawing near him.  
He pouted and squished his eyebrows down. "I'm sick."  
    "Sick? But Master Crane, you were the peak of health yesterday! Mm, and it's _Sunday_ too, what a bother."  
Ichabod squirmed. "I'm too sick to go to church."  
    "I suppose you're too sick for the peaches and porridge Cook made special for you, too."  
It was a clever move of the maid's, as Ichabod had a well known sweet tooth, but he resisted.  
    "I'm too sick for anything. I just want to stay in bed."  
    "Well then. I suppose I shall just have to make explanations and leave you be."  
  
    The moment she left the room, Ichabod tossed off the covers and leapt to his feet. Under the bed he had hidden a small wooden sword. He pulled it out and tossed it from hand to hand, smirking. He was going to beat the gardener's son today, he just knew it. He still had a bruise on his shin from when George had 'cut off his leg', which led to Ichabod hopping around a bush on one leg and teasing that George would be beaten by an amputee. _Only if you can catch me_ , the other boy had said, before climbing a tree like a blond squirrel. Yes, vengeance was definitely in the cards today.  
  
    Of course, the trouble with sending away the maid is that he had to dress himself. He struggled a bit with the buttons, and the collar wasn't sitting right, but it was probably better that he wasn't in his fine Sunday clothes. For freedom of movement, mostly. But he also felt strange about how differently George dressed; how his companion had to be kept secret because he lived in a small house and didn't have 'respectable connexions'. One time he learned that George's father, the gardener, could barely read, let alone get a tutor for his children. It was strange to Ichabod, that not everyone shared his love of books. He did, however, share a love of swordplay with George, a more accessible hobby. He was even learning a three-step parry! Well, making it up.  
  
    Crawling out the window wasn't a graceful procedure, but luckily the roses had already been trampled by one of father's hounds, and Ichabod left no trace as he slipped out into the shining morning. It was quick work sneaking between the topiary and hopping over the hedgerow to find George already up in his favourite tree. Ichabod brandished his sword.  
    "As a gentleman, I challenge you!"  
George smiled and plucked a pat of moss off his branch. "As a scoundrel, I ambush you!" He called, throwing the dirty green mess at his companion's clean shirt before leaping down to the ground.  
    "You cheat!" Ichabod laughed, running around the other side of the tree with his sword wagging in front of him, trying to wipe the grit off with his sleeve.  
    "You're just making it worse, Icky!"  
    "That's Crane to you, Snorge!" He threw his back against the tree trunk and then burst out again as George ran past, poking him in the kidneys. "Aha! You're dead already!"  
    "Ow," George mumbled. He pouted a bit and then turned to face his opponent. "New rules. You can't win by just hitting the organs anymore."  
    "What about chopping off your head?"  
    "No, no pretending. You win by... drawing blood."  
George obviously thought this was a wicked idea, but Ichabod started to feel anxious. "I don't know..."  
    "Afraid of getting blood on your shirt? It's _already_ dirty."  
    "I don't care about that! I just don't think it's gentlemanly."  
Ichabod was closing down and George could see it. He started to get angry.  
    "I'm sorry, George, I just-"  
    "What? Are you afraid you'll see me bleed red, instead of blue like you?"  
Ichabod's eyes started welling up, but he didn't want George to see him cry. It could be so hard being friends with someone who lived a completely different life, even if it was just on the other side of the hedgerow. He tucked his sword into his belt and returned to the open window, stepping over the roses. The sun was finished rising, and the room was stuffy. He was hungry. And alone.  
  



	2. December 2013

    Although breakfast was delayed by a loud and very public argument about 'english muffins', Abbie and Ichabod had only a greasy bag with some stray serviettes left when they walked through the station doors together.  
    "Now that you've eaten, you better be in a more co-operative mood. We've got files to look through."  
    "I assure you, Lieutenant, my irritation with inaccurate food labelling will not effect my work. Neither will that irritation waiver."  
    "Mm hmm," Abbie replied, before turning a corner and encountering a line of people. They were faces she knew, and the hall was filled with friendly and relaxed chatter. No emergency then. "What's going on, Meera?" she asked a cheerful morgue assistant.  
    "Hi Abbie! Some mandatory health thing. You have to go 'aaah', look at the light, let them take a blood sample; you know, a real party. I'm hoping for compensatory cookies," she said, crossing her fingers. She had deep brown eyes and a broad white smile.  
    "What are those markings on your hands?" Ichabod asked her.  
    "I'm surprised you can even notice any more!" Meera laughed. "It's the leftover mehndi from my sister's wedding a couple weeks ago. That's the trouble with working in the morgue, so much hand washing. It's nearly gone."  
    "It's beautiful," Abbie said. "I don't suppose I can swap places with you in line? I have some work I really need to get to."  
    "No problem! You can go ahead too if you want, Mr. Crane."  
    "Thank you but that will not be necessary. I do not intend to go 'aaah' for some stranger when I know I am perfectly healthy."  
    "You can't be sure of that," Abbie said. "And this is a doctor we're talking about, not some walk-in from the street."  
    "I do not doubt their credentials, but my time is better spent elsewhere."  
Abbie squinted her eyes at her tall companion. Meera's attention had moved on to a clerk just back from holiday, and there was an intimate sort of bubble as Abbie tried to follow her intuition. Ichabod was standing just a little too proudly, with his hands behind his back and an impatient look to his face turning towards the window. One thumb ran over his pulse point.  
    "You're afraid of needles, aren't you? You don't wanna give blood."  
Ichabod's eyes shot wide at this, and he quickly swept into Abbie's personal space. "I have no such fear," he said quietly. "You know I have faced far stranger medical testing than this."  
    "In life or death situations, yeah."  
    "Well!" he said, drawing back up. "Those are the situations we must be prepared for, so if you will excuse me, I will be reviewing those files." He firmly walked down the hall and out of Abbie's sight before she could shake her head.   
  
    Only 20 minutes later, she joined him in the secret bunker, rubbing at her arm. "Any progress?"  
Ichabod looked up drearily from the papers. "No," he said. "Only one mention of a coven but it appears to be-"  
    "Ah sorry, gotta get this," she interrupted, pulling her vibrating phone out of her pocket. "Captain?"  
Ichabod couldn't make out Frank Irving's voice from that tiny contraption, but he watched as his companion became more and more concerned. Her small figure became tense and before she hung up she quickly scribbled some information on a piece of paper.  
    "We need to go."  
    "Something related to the horseman? Officer Brooks?"  
    "No clear connections right now, but someone's drawing a lot of attention in the street just a couple blocks over, and the captain thinks we should look into it."  
    "A tenuous link, but I'd be happy to stretch my legs."  
  
    Some of the cars stopped on Beekman Avenue held drivers leaning out their windows trying to get a better look, but the majority of commuters were in a hurry, and frequently a car would break out of the line and swerve around the strange man who'd stumble in and out of the street, dazed. Pedestrians with coffees in hand were taking out their smartphones and recording. The man's eyes were sad and tired, but every now and then his body would jerk with sudden energy, and draw a gasp from the bystanders. There were enough cars honking their horns that the dissonance was unbearable.  
    "Can you knock it off!?", a bearded man shouted at the driver of a BMW. "This guy isn't going anywhere until an ambulance comes, just take another route!" This didn't stop the driver from deliberately laying on the horn again, and shouting profanities back. The bearded man didn't want his young daughter to hear such filth, but she had already wandered away from the argument. Absentmindedly, she continued on her way to school, hopping on the painted lines of the crosswalk around the front of blue truck. Veering around, an impatient SUV careened towards her and she was pushed out of the way just before a bodily crunch sounded behind her. Picking herself up from the side of the road, she turned to see the strange man crumpled and still. She screamed.  
  
    "What was that?" Abbie asked, rushing towards the centre of the action. Ichabod ran beside her, and they came upon a father holding his crying daughter and turning her face away from a fresh corpse. Abbie called it in and the driver of the SUV opened his door.  
    "It wasn't my fault," he said. "He jumped out at me. Everyone knows that guy was actin' nuts."  
    "When someone is in need of help, you aid them." Ichabod said sharply. "You do not blame them for coming to harm by your actions."  
    "I can't be liable for this, I have work to get to!"  
Other officers arrived on scene, with the coroner in tow.  
    "C'mon Crane, there's nothing we can do until they finish their work."  
He huffed and straightened his coat, looking over at the body. There was a strange sort of peace on the corpse's face. One he thought he recognized.


	3. August 1775

    Their shadows were small underfoot as Ichabod and two allies slithered between the silver birches. The POW camp was before them, and they'd just seen the watchmen leave for luncheon. There were only moments before the new guards would arrive. Slipping around the wooden gatehouse, the mission was clear. Just last night, during a raid, one of their greatest assets was captured: Marius, a famously skilled hunter and the lead tracker for Washington's secret task force. Ichabod had laughed with him over a rationed dinner the eve before; two turncoat Regulars sharing stories of fat pheasants. It was hard to believe how things had transformed in just 16 hours. Who knew what state his friend would be in after a night with the enemy.  
    Urgently, they swept past tents and behind barrels through the encampment. Marius was too great a threat to be kept with the other prisoners. Only the canvas enclosure looming in front of them seemed a possibility. An inevitability. The two men Ichabod had entered with silently took down the soldiers standing guard. He peeled back the canvas and stepped inside. In the centre of the space was a wooden straight-back chair, and there sat his friend. Raising his head, the prisoner stared up with sad eyes. He had injuries all over his body, but as Ichabod looked closer, he didn't appear to be tied up. Ropes were lying around the ground, cut.  
    "Couldn't take me knife", Marius slurred. His head rolled on his neck towards Ichabod. Unable to meet his gaze, Ichabod looked around the tent. Tools of torture were evident, as well as quills and a map.  
    "They were trying to learn our movements," Ichabod said, worry creeping up his spine. He turned back to the man in the chair. "Did you tell them anything? Did they rend any information from you?"  
    "Couldn't take me knife," Marius repeated. "Couldn't take me life." He raised his limp arm and Ichabod was shocked by the sight of an ornate dagger sticking out of his friend's wrist. The arm fell again, and brought his attention to the swollen and twisted leg beneath it.  
    "You cut yourself free and tried to escape," Ichabod pieced together. "But before you could get away, they broke your leg. With no way out..." His voice broke and he shuddered at the thought. "With no other way out, you attempted suicide."  
    "Couldn't take me life," Marius said again, head sagging as his body spasmed.  
    "Listen to me," Ichabod said urgently, dropping to one knee in front of his companion. "I have two men outside. We can carry you out of here. We can get you to a doctor, you just have to hold on."  
    "Too late," Marius breathed.  
    "Couldn't say it better myself." Without Ichabod's noticing, a man in red had entered the tent through the back. His smile was dark as he pointed his musket straight at Crane's chest. With the sound of cracking bone and exploding gunpowder, Marius leapt from the chair and the small ball of lead gorged itself inside his ribcage. In the order-less clash of muskets, swords, and mortal men, before his escape from the camp, Ichabod had looked back at the hunter's face and seen peace.


	4. December 2013

    "You're telling me the collision wasn't the cause of death? That doesn't make sense. We had _eye witnesses_. We had videos of the crash on YouTube before officers even arrived!" Abbie was tense and frustrated and pacing back and forth beside the morgue's table. Lying in the centre of the room was the strange man who'd been hit by the SUV just a few hours ago. His skin was tawny underneath the fluorescent lights and his body hadn't taken well to the coroners attempts to straighten the limbs. Meera was wringing her fingers and shyly looking up at Ichabod, who was fixated on the corpse's face.  
    "I don't understand either, but that's what Dr. Hoffman said." She turned to Ichabod and added, "Dr. Hoffman's my superior. She's a genius at these things."  
    "Did she inform you what it was that did kill this man?" he asked.  
    "That's something I'd like to hear," Abbie mumbled, cautiously leaning in towards the dead man. "Why is there so little bruising?"  
    "I-" Meera stuttered. "I can give you a hypothesis. But you're not gonna believe it."  
Abbie and Ichabod shared a look. "Try us," he said.  
    "If you look here," Meera offered, indicating the broken skin above the kidneys, "There's what looks like a deep knife wound. It's the only source of internal bleeding, and..." she faltered again, "The only injury that doesn't appear to be post mortem."  
    "You can't be serious," Abbie said. "No wonder Irving wanted us on this."  
 The room felt even colder as the afternoon seemed to stretch out before them like a dark cloud. Being the Witnesses meant they had to have answers to all the impossible questions. Like how could a dead man walk around and get himself hit by a car? Was he being controlled? And who was he, anyway? Best to start small. Baby steps.  
    "Do we have an I.D. on him yet?"  
Meera smiled again. "Yes! It was actually pretty easy." She brought up a photograph and accompanying data on her console. "Arthur Polley. We brought this guy into the station not too long ago."  
    "A criminal?" Ichabod asked.  
    "No actually! He found a body and came in to give a statement."  
    "More bodies. I do wonder how large the population of Sleepy Hollow is to maintain such a trend."  
    "Well it's a lot smaller since you came to town," Abbie said, before realizing how mean spirited the joke sounded outside her head. "I didn't mean-"  
    "I understand," Ichabod interjected. "The chaos that's overtaken this town isn't natural. And that's why we must get to the bottom of this. Ah, Miss...?"  
    "Meera Bijlani," the morgue assistant smiled.  
    "Yes, Miss Bijlani. Where can we find the files on the body Mr. Polley found?"  
    "Dr. Hoffman took them into her office. She said she wanted to look over them again. Strange though, considering she's the one that wrote it up in the first place."  
    "We'll have to go pay her a visit," said Abbie. Something about this did not feel right. Together they made their way down the hall. Someone rushed past them as they rushed forward, a reminder of the busy lives that don't involve mysterious undeaths. An itch crawled up Ichabod's spine as they drew closer to Dr. Hoffman's office door. It was slightly open, and there was something wet on the outer edge, just above the lock.  
    "Dr. Hoffman?" Meera asked, cautiously nudging the door and revealing the grey, orderly room. Behind the desk sat slumped a woman with a fringe of white hair falling over her face. She was murmuring. Abbie stepped forward slowly, followed by Ichabod; no sudden movements. The woman's head lolled and she looked up at him.  
    "Tried, I tried, I tried," she hushed, mouth forming the words like foreign sounds. Seeing that Dr. Hoffman was focused on Ichabod, Abbie slid around to flank her, in case she turned violent. Before she could pull out her gun, she saw blood dripping from the chair.  
    "Crane, I think she's injured."  
    "Dr. Hoffman, are you alright?" His tone was calm and soft, like speaking to a wild animal. She leant forward and kept moving her lips, but he couldn't hear anything. Her eyes were so sad.  
    "Oh my god," Abbie said, hitching her breath. Now that there was space between the woman's back and the chair, the source of the blood became obvious. A vicious wound below her shoulder had soaked her lab coat in dark red. "This- this isn't fresh. I mean, it happened in the last 10 minutes, but she was just here in her office. Why didn't she call for help? She must have just been sitting here, bleeding to-"  
    "Trying, I'm trying," the doctor muttered and whined. "Tried, I try..."  
Meera was crying soundlessly. She pressed her back against the wall, and edged her way towards Abbie. "Why-" she sputtered, " _Why isn't she dead?_ " Abbie put an arm around the frightened morgue assistant and looked towards Ichabod. She really needed him to have some answers, because she didn't even know where to start.  
  



	5. March 1775

    Candles were lit in the lanterns hanging along the docks. The sun was still setting, but the rain clouds from that afternoon made everything darker, more obscured. The pines on shore were just shadows. Ichabod's footsteps on the wet wooden boards leading to the tall ship were shaky; the pier was thin and there were people scrambling all around him.  
    "It's just this way, Crane," said his guide. "Don't mind the folks offloading. This ship brought more conventional supplies for the war effort, in addition to what I have in store for you. And time is of the essence if we want to keep these colonies in check."  
    "Of course," Ichabod answered, hands smartly behind his back.  
    "They call it a revolution. It's more like a child crying for its bottle. Whiskey bottle in this case."  
    "I've heard reports of trouble stirring up north. And the French are looking to get involved as well. That's quite the temper tantrum."  
    "Mm, many lives lost before the king prevails. Here we are," the guide said, gesturing to a gangplank leading onto the busy ship. "You first, professor."  
Ichabod looked around warily and then tried to gracefully march up the gangplank and onto the deck. Most of the crates had been removed, but there were still people bustling out from doors with arms loaded with supplies. He was lead below through two doors, and suddenly he saw no people, and no light.  
    "I'll just light a candle for you," the guide offered, igniting a thin spiral of beeswax and then unlocking a final door. Before Ichabod could walk through he placed a hand on his chest. "These are prized secrets, so remember you're only here because we needed a historian. We're trusting in your discretion."  
    "You have my word."  
    "Then let me show you the chest." The guide walked through the doorway into an eclectically filled brig. There were tapestries and hanging garlic, boxes of strange proportions and scrolls etched with ash, swords from around the world and a few guns larger than Ichabod had ever seen. The chest the man had referred to was cherry red, and sealed with a shining brass padlock. Flipping through the keys on his ring, he selected one and made Ichabod unconsciously hold his breath. Inside, there were several different weapons, all paired with parchments. "These have been collected by the East India Company and surrendered to the crown."  
    "Fascinating," Ichabod murmured, leaning in to look at the treasures. "May I?" he asked, pointing to a colourful parchment.  
    "It's what you're here for."  
Unfolding the parchment was like unwrapping a Christmas present. Beautifully iridescent inks had been used in vibrant reds and purples. The script reminded him of a language he'd seen before, but in a dialect that transformed the words.  
    "Well, what have you got?"  
    "Honour."  
    "How fortunate."  
    "The parchment, I mean. It's mainly concerned with honouring life."  
    "Strange for a weapon," the man remarked. "That must be this dagger, right?" He pulled out an ornate dagger from the chest. The blade itself was sharp and average, but it was the jewelled hilt and grip made of solid metal curved in spirals around an empty glass compartment that made it unique.  
    "It's a hunting dagger, but very sacred. One must have respect for the life it takes." Without looking at the thing itself, Ichabod turned the parchment towards the candlelight to better parse the words.   
    "What's the glass bit for?"  
    "It's for the blood." Ichabod's eyes widened. "The hunter's, not the animal's. It's a symbolic sacrifice; a recognition of equality before the Creator. An honour bond, to bring them peace."  
    "The 'Creator', what heathen rubbish." Ichabod's guide put the dagger back in the chest carelessly and then delightedly pulled out a jet black blunderbuss. "Alright, tell me about this."  
    "There's more to this parchment, don't you think I should-"  
    "The war's not going to be won with a little butter knife and some nice words. Remember why you're here."  
    "Of course..." Ichabod answered. He delicately refolded the parchment and placed it gently in the chest. Remember why you're here.


	6. December 2013

   Remember, remember, he had to remember. He had seen those eyes before, not just on the face of the man in the road, but years ago, centuries ago, in the middle of the enemy's POW camp. They should have been dead. They all should have been dead. Instead they were muttering, twitching, almost animal. There was a dignity in death that they weren't permitted.  
    "An honourable death."  
    "What?" Abbie was walking with him through the darkened parking lot. Meera was seeing to Dr. Hoffman, and now that it was nearly midnight they really had to make progress on this case. She needed to eat something too.  
    "I've seen this before. I didn't think it could be connected, but it must be."  
    "You've seen this before!?" Abbie stopped stiff. "How are you only saying this now? People have died, Crane!"  
    "I didn't understand, I hadn't seen all sides of it. You can't understand a power when you've only seen how it's supposed to be used. You need to see it mishandled, misappropriated, abused and corrupted to really know what the consequences can be."  
    "I'm not followin' you." She crossed her arms.  
Ichabod was pensive. There wasn't enough information available to him, he had to make logical leaps even he had a hard time explaining to himself. Abbie was looking up at him though, and he could see the trust there. The faith. He pinched his brow. "I think... I think this is the work of a dagger I have seen long ago. It has a small glass vial in the grip. A hunter is supposed to offer their own blood, as a sign of respect to the prey. But perhaps... Perhaps if someone didn't put their own blood... What might happen if... they instead put the blood of their victim?"  
    "There would be no sacrifice, no honourable death."  
    "I knew a man once who had possession of that dagger. He was a hunter, a good man. When he tried to kill himself on that blade, he became like Dr. Hoffman. Lost. But it must have been due to his own blood in the knife's hilt, disturbing the ceremony."  
    "That doesn't explain all this. Sure, he had a reason to put his blood in the dagger, but Mr. Polley and Dr. Hoffman certainly didn't. I mean, she was stabbed in the back. Pretty hard to do that to yourself."  
    "Yes, I definitely feel there's a missing piece here." He looked grim.  
    "More research couldn't hurt," Abbie suggested. They started walking again, nearing the vehicle. As Ichabod walked around to the passenger's door, a sound of screeching metal dragged out behind them. Abbie turned to see a short and furious man holding an ornate dagger.  
    "Lieutenant Millssss," he purred. "You are a _traitor_ to the badge you wear."  
    "Excuse me?" she answered, facing him full on.  
    "You covered for Morales. You covered for him when he let my brother's killer go free."  
She twisted her brow. She recognized him. He was the doctor from the health check-up down at the station. Only this morning he'd tapped at her knee and made her say ahh. Had he faked his way in? She tried to remember the details now, but then she was struck by a new realization. He had taken her blood. She took a breath. Behind her Ichabod was moving extremely slowly, trying to get closer to the man without catching his attention.  
    "Arthur Polley started it," the man growled. "When he found my brother he trampled all over the crime scene; who knows what evidence he destroyed? And then that morgue witch, Alice Hoffman, trying to avoid paperwork by saying it wasn't a murder. Who upholds the justice in this town? Who?!" The man's voice slowly grew louder and louder; spittle flying out of his mouth. "And now Luke Morales is off in court, probably twisting some other 'facts' to his whims, but he won't get away with it forever. Someone has to hold you accountable. Teach you honour!"  
    "Listen, just put down the-"  
The man leapt at her, and she grabbed his wrist just in time to turn the blade away from her ribcage. They both twisted and slammed up against the side of the SUV. Their statures were similar but he was solid with muscle. He bit her hand and forced her to let go of her grasp.  
    "Abbie!" Ichabod shouted, ripping the man off her and falling backwards with him onto the neighbouring car, cracking the glass. He was rewarded with a blunt elbow to the gut that ripped the air from his lungs. Kicking off the car, the man swung at Abbie. She ducked and tackled him, throwing them both to the pavement. Everything was going so fast, and his eyes were on fire with misdirected emotion. She tried to wrestle the knife out of his hands, but he was holding on so tight. He plunged the blade towards her neckline and she had no choice.  
    "I'm sorry," she said, and redirected the dagger into the man's chest. With a jerk he went limp and she scrambled to stand up. Ichabod was at her side in an instant. Her breathing was heavy, shaking her whole body. "Oh god, what have I done? We have to staunch the bleeding, we need to-"  
    "There's no point," Ichabod interjected. "That dagger is designed for giving a good death, and that's what you've done. You had no other options."  
   "That poor man," she said, calming down. She noticed that his eyes were closed, like he was finally at peace. "I remember that case now. His little brother committed suicide. It must have weighed so heavily on him."  
    "Death can be hard to accept in any form. It's a fate that will come to us all, in one way or another. For me twice, I suppose."  
    "Maybe save that for another day?" Abbie asked, looking up at him with tired eyes.  
    "Yes. I think this day is about over."  



End file.
